All of them, however, sported the Imperial tabard. Evidently the Emperor wanted to make sure that people were aware at all times that the Dolls that served them belonged to the Emperor, not to them.
From time to time someone around him would address Kordas with some quip that was meant to highlight or confirm that he was, essentially, a bumped-up country Squire. Mostly he answered these in a way that confirmed that impression.
But when the Count, over the dessert course, asked sneeringly, “Just who was your father, Valdemar?” he decided it was time to break that impression a little.
“My father was Erik, Duke of Valdemar,” he said evenly. “His father was Werther, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Ugo, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Hrothgar, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Polmar, Duke of Valdemar. His father was Lokan, Duke of Valdemar.” He continued on for more generations of Dukes of Valdemar, until the Count’s eyes had glazed over, everyone within hearing range had been made aware that his lineage and title went back a very long time indeed, and he had cemented that his pedigree was every bit as good as any of theirs—and probably better than most, and certainly dated back to when the Emperor had merely been a High King. He finished with, “And Lerren, Duke of Valdemar, was made Duke by High King Sonat the First—for establishing the line of Chargers and horsing every one of the Conquering Knights of the Realm, I’m told, although that could just be family myth.” And he laughed. “I did say it pays to know your pedigrees.”
The Duke brayed with laughter, looking directly at the Count, and the Count flushed an angry red. Hmm. Could be the Count’s title is rather shiny and new.
“So it does, Valdemar,” said the Duke genially. “So it does.”
The mage-lights in the enormous dining chamber dimmed and turned a pale green, which made everyone look as if they were slightly bilious and seemed to be the signal that it was time to leave the table. Kordas followed the Duke at a discreet distance, and discovered that they were all expected to mingle in an adjoining, equally large room, where there were more musicians and an open floor for dancing. Star stayed quietly at his elbow and said nothing as he found himself an out-of-the-way corner by an alcove that contained an extraordinarily realistic and extraordinarily bland statue of a heroic figure in full armor. Probably an Emperor. If not the current one, then at least one of his ancestors.
He was exhausted. This entire evening had been more of a drain on his emotional and mental resources than he could have imagined. He hoped that he could remain ignored for the rest of the night.
Fortunately, it appeared that there were things that were far more interesting right now than he was. The company was mixed, although most of the women sat along the walls. There was a pattern there, clusters of young women heavily supervised by a single older one. Probably sisters and a mother or aunt. Men would come and ask them to dance, and the older woman would either look pleased or stern—the young ones would go to dance regardless, but if the chaperone looked stern, they would return once a single dance was over.
But there was a more interesting game going on. Several women, young and not so young, stood, rather than sitting, by themselves. These ladies were dancing a very different sort of dance among clusters of men—young and not so young—who were competing for their attentions. Those who were not part of those clusters appeared to be very much engrossed in the little dramas being played out before them.
Kordas started when someone touched his elbow.
He turned to find himself looking into the eyes of the Prince who had sat across from him. “Pardon. Did I startle you, Valdemar?” the young man asked. The polite tone seemed genuine.
“A trifle, your Highness,” he replied. “I was taking in the view, and engrossed in the music. My little Duchy is too small to have such gatherings every night. And we are rather too backwater as well. Our days begin early and end early, and our entertainments are generally simpler.”
The Prince smiled thinly. “So it seems,” he said in neutral tones. “I was wondering; was that story you told about mounting all the Knights of the Realm on Valdemar Chargers a true one?”
Careful. “It’s family legend, Highness,” he said. “I can’t speak for how true it is. Although I could verify it if I had access to our records. We keep very careful records.”
“Apparently, if you know the pedigree even of horses that have been bred when out of your hands.” There didn’t seem to be any irony in the Prince’s statement. “I wonder, would it be possible to secure an entire year’s—would you call it a ‘crop’?—of Chargers at once?”
“This year’s Chargers, no, I regret to say,” he replied, trying to convey a genuine regret. “And the ones born this year won’t be released for a while regardless. We hold them until they are four years old, and send them out fully trained, so that they are up to bearing the weight of a fully armored knight, and so that we know when they leave our hands they are battle ready. About half of our Chargers for this year have been sent out already, and most of the rest are spoken for. You could secure the current three-year-olds, however, to be delivered in a year.”
The Prince smiled again, this time with satisfaction. “That would suit me perfectly well. Even the two-year-olds would do. We will speak later, Valdemar.”
He bowed deeply, as was proper. “I am at your service, your Highness,” he said, and the Prince nodded and slipped away.
What the hell was that about? Why would anyone want a full year’s worth of Chargers?
Well . . . moot question. Because it wasn’t going to happen. If all went well, by the time the snow fell, he and his and all of his horses would be long gone.
* * *
—
“It is appropriate for you to leave now, if you choose, lord Duke,” Star said in a quiet whisper, just as Kordas was debating whether or not to find out if anything available to drink on the table across the room was something other than intoxicating. The behavior of some of the people suggested this was unlikely. None of them were drunk—that would clearly be dangerous—but eyes were a little too bright, cheeks too flushed, laughter too loud, and behavior ventured on reckless. Duels were sparked at these damned things, and he didn’t want to find himself on the receiving end of a challenge just because some idiot stumbled into him and decided to take offense.
“Lead the way, Star,” he muttered, and followed the Doll as it threaded its way effortlessly along the wall, avoiding everything and everyone, in an intricate sort of dance that was surprisingly graceful. He wasn’t the only one leaving, as he soon found when he was brought to a hallway, which in turn led into either that enormous entry hall full of Gates, or a room just like it. There were quite a few people heading for those Gates, and presumably to their apartments.
“Step up to a Gate, hold up your bracelet to the Gate, and say ‘The Copper Apartment,’” Star murmured, stopping briefly to let him get ahead, so that the Doll could follow him as the other Dolls were following their masters. Right. Don’t look out of place, he reminded himself, and picked a Gate no one seemed to be heading to.